Hunter and Prey
by Racheliz
Summary: Ficlet about Selene's encounter with Mar, an old lycan. They've hunted each other for centuries, but their battle is about to come to a close.
1. Chapter 1

My fingers tighten on the cold steel grip of my twin Berettas. The breeze is cool, winging its way across the tall mountains hundreds of miles behind me. I stand in the center of a wheat-field, or what may have been a wheat field at one point in time. In front of me and to my right I have seen an old stone building, half eaten away by time. I guess that there is a lycan somewhere nearby – be it in the stone building or in the woods three hundred yards before me, I'm almost certain that someone, something is out there.

I'm in a dark mood tonight – dark like the moonless night that surrounds me. Five hundred years ago, I would have no game tonight. But the moon holds no sway over my prey, sometimes my predator, anymore. The wolves are ancient and powerful; they turn at will now. A dangerous situation, but one that I've grown accustomed to.

I hope that the lycan might be Mar, whom I have hunted for hundreds of years. Maybe more accurately, we have hunted each other. In such a hunt, the line between prey and predator, hunter and hunted, is blurred and crossed and disregarded. But I like it that way; I seek not the dumb animal with little or no ability to save itself – I seek a predator in its prime.

Mar is in his prime. Although I have rarely seen him in his human form, I know his face, his voice, his scent. I have learned to research my prey, and Mar is no exception. He is six feet, eight and one half inches. His eyes are an odd mix of brown and yellow, his skin a rich chocolate color. Mar possesses the deepest baritone I've ever heard in a speaking voice; strikingly gruff.

I know I've been standing here for almost an hour, waiting for whatever may come. I sense a charge in the air now, an adrenaline that I could swear wasn't there before. I let myself drop to a crouch, my center of gravity suddenly only inches away from the ground. I drag my right foot out from under me and place my knee down; stability is important in situations like this.

I'm in a three point stance now – left foot, right knee, right foot. I sink further into it; I'm used to the crouch, and although it will never be truly comfortable, it is somehow _comforting_. My chest is inches away from my thigh, and my hands, clasping the cold guns, are in "ready" position by my ears. A twig snaps, and the faint rustle of ripe winter wheat comes from my left. I don't turn, or even look: I listen.

Suddenly a pounding from my right – I expected this, if not so close. I pivot on one knee, turning just in time to see gold eyes and white wolf-fur only feet from me. I unload bullets in his direction, but it's simply too late. Mar smashes into me with the force of a freight train, but even that can't kill me. I use his force against him, flipping him off me as his momentum aids me. I roll up to a low crouch, on my feet but close to the ground. The wolf stands, slavering, jaws gnashing. The Berettas are gone, knocked from my grasp.

I feel for my backup gun, hidden in my boot. Only one of many, but the second best that I have. My silver bullets won't kill him unless shot directly into the head, but I send eight glimmering bullets after him as he leaps and bounds away from me. I hear sound behind me and curse quietly – another lycan?

Spinning once again, I shoot four bullets at the figure, and hear a satisfying squelch as my silver connects with his body. I scrabble briefly in the dirt, coming up with my Berettas. I replace the gun in my boot, in full knowledge that it contains exactly four bullets. Another thing I've learned over the years – know your clips, ammunition, and guns. Know everything about them.

In the velvet dark, I pull the hammer on one of the Berettas, blowing in the chamber to evacuate the dirt, then letting the hammer slap back with a dull _crack_. The second Beretta is out of my reach, and I'm out of time. I simply pray that I cleaned the first well enough – if there's one thing more deadly than a lycan in its prime, it's a dirty gun that misfires or jams just at the moment you need it most.

The lycans circle around me, on opposite sides from each other. They're wily beasts, but Mar's companion is far inferior. He circles closer and closer – Mar undoubtedly is using the youngling as a distraction. If I turn to kill the other, Mar will be upon me in a second. The companion suddenly leaps forward, as if to nip me, and I pound a bullet through his skull. Mar hadn't been expecting that – his communication with the youngling is apparently lacking. The change in the younger lycan convulses his body, so I move away from the thrashing corpse.

Our night vision is a hundred times better than humans' day vision, but here, sound is more important. An extra weight to his step and I know he is about to leap. A skipped tempo in his gait and I know he is about to charge. A hundred things go through my head as we circle slowly. I choose a moment and shoot my silver bullets even though I know he is too cunning for that. He leaps towards me, nearly over my head, turning in mid-air and snapping his jaws where my head had been had I not seen him coming.

His head smashes into mine nonetheless, and I fall heavily on the ground. Mar is atop me in an instant, ready to gore me with his huge teeth. One giant paw pins my right arm, his body weight pins my torso. The Beretta is out of my reach, and I can't bend down enough to reach the second. Mar reaches for my jugular, but realizes instantly that he must first tear through a thick, hard layer of leather at my collar. The few extra seconds are all that I need.

With my left hand I reach across my stomach, underneath his body, and pull out the knife I save for just such an occasion. It's a silver switchblade; steel on the inside, with a good layer of sterling silver covering it. Mar has my collar open – he pulls back briefly and plunges down, but my knife slips into chin silently. Most death in this war _is_ silent.

I throw him off me – his body not limp, but more yielding. I know immediately that the tip of the blade has entered the lower part of his brain. He's not dead yet, but he's dying. I stand over him, drawing my second soundlessly. He isn't convulsing; he's been a lycan so long that his body won't change back without his willing it to do so – even in death. I point the second at his head and fire three rapid shots in a cloverleaf pattern into his head, sealing his death.

I sink slowly to my knees, knowing that over five centuries of hunting are now over. I feel empty suddenly – is the war really at an end? My personal vendetta against Mar is, but each time I kill a lycan, I wonder if I am nearing the end of the thing. At the same time, an old rivalry is finally dead. I have looked for this day and hoped for the time I might put a silver bullet between Mar's eyes, but was that was I truly wanted all along?

My fingers twine in the coarse fur along his backbone. I clench it tightly, I cling to it for strength. The beginning of the end draws near.


	2. Chapter 2

I whisper through the door, letting it sink silently behind me into its setting. One thing I've long loved about being a Death Dealer: our feet make no sound, as if we are silently held just a millimeter above whatever ground we walk on. Things that we do are quiet, and that makes us even more other-worldly than our debauched, frivolous vampire counterparts. Yes, Death Dealers consider themselves superior, even separate. But even solely because we don't sit on pompous asses and drink counterfeit blood out of crystalline glasses we are superior, aren't we? We vanquish our enemies with the icy might of our forefathers running through our cold veins, the dominance in our arms flowing directly from our culture's heroes of yore.

Inside Ordoghaz, vampires lie across burgundy velvet divans, limbs spread extravagantly, sprawled across each other in almost morbid poses. I tread lightly past them, but they are intoxicated on the thick red nectar that gives all of us life. They use theirs pleasurably, drinking it with strains of strong wine in excessive orgies that have long disgusted me; hundreds of years of such decadence have left them weak. My arm is still forceful and my body is still built and keen for the hunt. Their limbs have long since relinquished whatever strength they had, which at one time had been mighty.

Our people had truly been great at one time. As hunters, thousands of years ago, we were the elite. We hunted at night; our prey were the humans' predators. Those that they feared, feared us. In medieval times, we had begun our dominance – we ruled from afar in cold stone castles and watched as mortals carried out our bidding. This was Viktor's time. When the vampires were forceful and beautiful and ethereal, and their reign was something to be feared and respected. No one knew exactly what we were, yet they treated us with god-like respect that fed our egos and sank us into our

The Renaissance had been a cruel time for us, or at least from my perspective. We had begun mingling with the mortals, engaging them, inspiring them and portraying them in beautiful paintings and sculptures. We were creatures of the night, but in the Renaissance, who wasn't? Our reign was ending, and the humans chose to forget everything we'd held over them. We lowered ourselves to their level and began our descent from gods to simply immortal humans. We slipped back into the night when we realized we were neither needed nor respected any longer. And since then, we'd remained minor players in the grand scheme of society, yielding our place as rulers to the next class, this time of evanescent mortals. I have watched kings and queens come and go, comparing their folly to that of the generation before and waiting for our day to rise like a phoenix from its senseless ashes.

My memory slices through so many things, even of my fallen comrades. Our war has been long and merciless, and I have lost many good friends and great Death Dealers to curved claws and sharpened fangs. These transgressors laying in their stupor around me don't deserve the title of vampire. I wander through dark corridors, ascending the lone staircase in my route doubling the steps I gain in each stride.

I halt in front of my room, my fingers caressing the knob. This is not a place of peace for me. I rest here, for lack of a better place to go, but each corner and crevice reminds me of fallen heroes and better times. I turn the knob, feeling intimately the shifting of the gears within. Heightened senses have certainly come to my aid in the war, but tiny sensations like the shudder of pins in a lock still surprise and exhilarate me after six hundred some years.

The door shuts behind me, and the crack of wood on wood shudders through me. I would turn to lock the door behind me, but Kraven had it removed years ago, in hopes of making me more accessible. Slowly, savoring the heat in my muscles, I begin to peel the leather skin from my own. The leather has become comforting for me; without it, I feel exposed. I pull the left shoulder off, opening a hidden zipper at the wrist and tugging at the hem until it releases its tight hold from my skin. The rest comes away smoothly.

I stand in the middle of my room, my leather suit thrown over a nearby chair. I pull on a pair of black jeans with a black camisole and settle myself onto my bed. The down in my mattress is soft, even too soft. I have a Spartan mentality, as I have since the first time I slew a lycan and discovered the warrior that had lain dormant within me until that moment. What heart I have beats for the chase, for the moment of discovery, for that first high scent of blood that leaves me with just a second of pure ecstasy. In my mind, the best way to preserve that warrior's spirit is to live hard and stern. Nothing unnecessary, nothing more than sufficient. But I can't help what is pressed upon me.


End file.
